


Bikini

by okapi



Series: Clothes Make the Woman [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bikinis, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Femslash, Genderswap, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Estranged from John and exiled in the Caribbean, Sherlock falls asleep on the beach and dreams. Fem!Lock and Fem!John.</p><p>A re-imagining of the scene from the 1962 James Bond movie “Dr. No” in which Honey Ryder (played by Ursula Andress) emerges from the water in a white bikini. Melancholy PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bikini

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place within the events of [ Backstory ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1135128/chapters/2294789). In a nutshell, Sherlock and John have a vicious fight. John storms out, abandoning Sherlock and the Baker Street flat. Sherlock spirals out of control. Through Mycroft’s intervention—and to avoid prosecution for attacking Anderson—Sherlock is sent to a substance abuse treatment centre in the Caribbean. This all takes place prior to Sherlock and John becoming lovers. The conch shell featured here is the one that Sherlock gives John in chapter 13 of [ Backstory ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1135128/chapters/2294789).

Sherlock knew it was a dream.

Sherlock knew it was a dream because John emerged from the sea, spontaneously, like an apparition. There was no boat, no sand bar, no point on the horizon or in the vicinity from whence she could have come. Indeed, Sherlock had chosen this particular spot on the beach for its isolation. John rose from the water like Botticelli’s Venus, beautiful and alluring. 

Sherlock ached instantly.

Sherlock knew it was a dream because John’s skin did not have the no-tan-above-the-wrist of soldiering in the Afghan sun. It was a uniform bronze all over her delectable body. It was a colour that spoke of years of moving freely in tropical environs, rather than the paleness of being wrapped in misshapen jumpers under cloudy London skies. It was the colour of the caramelized sugar that topped those ridiculous desserts John ordered when they went to Angelo’s.

Nevertheless, Sherlock wanted to devour her. 

Sherlock knew it was a dream because John’s honeyed skin was scantily clad in a white bikini, with a top that tied in the front. Sherlock knew that John could swim. The swimming she had witnessed, however, was after they had both been tossed in the Thames, fully clothed, by villains. Sherlock had never actually seen John in swimming attire, but knew that she favored athletic-looking and men’s style undergarments. She liked clothing that was _serviceable_. Indeed, if pressed to consider what John would wear to swim, Sherlock’s mind conjured a modest Victorian bathing dress. In all frankness, she could more easily imagine John wrestling a Kraken than parading herself so exposed to public scrutiny. 

Nevertheless, Sherlock drank John in with unabashed lust. 

John approached, smiling warmly. She had a belt with a large knife on it. She took the belt off and stuck the knife in the sand, beside Sherlock. On Sherlock’s other side, she set a large conch shell. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” she crooned. She bent down and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. “Looking for something?” she asked playfully.

“Just looking,” replied Sherlock with a mirrored grin, and the rightness of the banter and the flickered exchange of heated glances almost made her come right then and there. 

Sherlock knew it was a dream because John went on kissing her, never breaking from her lips. She drew the tip of her tongue across Sherlock’s bottom lip, asking for entry. Sherlock opened her mouth and leaned back on her hands. John plundered Sherlock’s mouth with her tongue. Then, she sucked each lip gently between her lips and teeth. 

Sherlock knew it was a dream because since John had slammed the Baker Street door behind her, Sherlock had spent the better part of her waking hours smoking. Sherlock knew that John would never kiss her like this; it would be like “licking an ashtray” as John had described of one of her failed dates with a disgusted sigh. She would probably be loathe to even approach her, much less wrap her arms around Sherlock as she was now, nuzzling her neck deliciously.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John gave a soft little moan. Sherlock gave in and gave herself up to the dream, cupping John’s head in her hands and kissing her full-mouthed. Then, Sherlock licked down John’s neck, tasting the sea on her skin.

Sherlock knew it was a dream because John smelled of suntan oil and brightly-coloured flowers and shrimp being grilled in open air. Not tea and gun oil and hospital-grade disinfectant and the sweat of fear and adrenaline and brushes with death. She smelled of coconuts, not apples.

Nevertheless, Sherlock kissed John’s chest and shoulders with abandon, reveling in the scent of her. 

John unbuttoned Sherlock’s blouse with one hand and put the fingers of the other hand to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock lapped at them eagerly. John unclasp Sherlock’s bra and slipped her wet fingers around Sherlock’s nipple, teasing it. Sherlock groaned. John pushed Sherlock on her back and covered the hardened nipple with her mouth. Sherlock arched into John’s mouth and groaned again. John unfastened Sherlock’s trousers deftly and drew down the zipper. She slipped her hand between the fabric of Sherlock’s trousers and knickers, cupping her.

There were two ways Sherlock knew it was a dream. First, the pair flipped with the intimate, unspoken precision of long-time lovers, not the awkward fumbling of first-timers. Sherlock was on top, and John was nested beneath her, opening her legs and drawing her knees up, still pressing into Sherlock with her hand. Second, the sand did not stick to them. No grittiness to hamper the glide of skin-on-skin. They both whimpered when chests and bellies touched. Sherlock was cocooned in John’s limbs, with the one arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. 

Nevertheless, Sherlock wanted to prolong the dream, to wring from this John every ounce of pleasure possible. But the ache kept building and she was soon riding John’s fingers, grinding into her, seeking more. 

“ _John_ ,” cried Sherlock softly and urgently. John pushed Sherlock’s knickers aside and thrust her index finger inside Sherlock’s wetness. She curled her finger just so and Sherlock pushed down, down, down. _There._ Sherlock did not want to embarrass herself. She had her pride, even in a dream.

Nevertheless, she screamed John’s name when she came.

They rolled their foreheads against each other and kissed sweetly. 

Before John rose and re-girded herself with belt and knife. Before she strolled back to the sand’s edge and sank into the still waters. Before she disappeared entirely from Sherlock’s view. Before all that, she whispered in Sherlock’s ear.

“ _I love you, Sherlock_.”

And, above all, that’s how Sherlock knew it was a dream.

 

 

Sherlock awoke to sea birds cawing. She raised her eyebrows at the large conch shell beside her and scanned the beach and water around her. She was as alone as when she had arrived earlier that morning. She picked up the shell, tracing the spiky ridges, and smiled at it. She got up and brushed sand off her clothes and walked slowly back to town.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
